When I was 14, they took my little brother Samuel away. He was only six. I hugged him tight and promised, “This isn’t forever.”

Over the next few years, I bounced between foster homes, went to night school, and juggled three jobs. Every single dollar I earned went toward keeping a tiny apartment ready for him. His favorite dinosaur bedsheets stayed washed. His old teddy bear always waited on the pillow.

During our supervised visits, he’d ask, “When can I come home?”
I’d smile and say, “Soon.”
Even when I wasn’t sure that was true.

By the time our final custody hearing came around, I had done everything I could. I had earned my GED, held steady work, and saved up. But the judge looked uncertain—too young, not enough income, no separate room. Samuel sat quietly in the back of the courtroom, eyes wide with hope.

Then something changed.

My landlady, Mrs. Rachel, offered me the upstairs room—for the same rent. “Fix it up,” she said, handing me the key. “Just don’t burn my house down.”

I painted the walls blue—Samuel’s favorite. It wasn’t fancy, but it was home.

A few days later, Samuel’s foster mom called. “We wrote a letter to the judge,” she said. “We told him Samuel belongs with you.”

At the hearing, I stood tall. “I know I’m young,” I said. “But I’ve been there for Samuel his whole life. I can give him love. I can give him home.”

The judge was quiet for a moment. Then he said the words I’d dreamed of hearing:

“The best place for Samuel is with his brother.”

Samuel ran into my arms. And in that moment, everything felt right.

As we walked out of the courtroom, I asked, “Wanna get pizza to celebrate?”

His face lit up. “Yeah!”

And just like that, for the first time in years, it felt like magic was real again.